


Warmth

by Satine86



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 5+1, F/M, Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 05:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satine86/pseuds/Satine86
Summary: 5 times Cassandra and Varric were forced to share a bed, and 1 time they weren't.





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytha/gifts).



> This was written for a tumblr drive I was doing. The request was for V/C and tropes, so I went with the best tropes. ;) I hope you enjoy!

1 

 

The inside of the tent is spacious, furs and blankets covering the ground -- all a little damp, but then again everything is always a little damp on the Storm Coast -- everyone trying to huddle together for warmth as a particularly chilly wind lashes the outside of the tent, creeping in between the seams. Rain beats against the canvas, heavy pelts like someone is throwing pebbles against it.

That, however, is not what keeps Varric awake. Nor is it the rumbling snores of the Inquisitor; those are becoming more commonplace and he can usually ignore them easily enough. What keeps Varric awake is the warm body tucked next to his, surprisingly soft outside of armor, and distinctly feminine. 

Everything about Cassandra is softened by sleep, the slope of her brow, the curve of her lips and the puffs of breath escaping between them, and especially the hand ever so gently gripping the front of his tunic. 

Varric is afraid to move or even really breathe for fear of waking her, and possibly bringing her attention to their current position. There’s no need to deal with the ensuing awkwardness, or confusion masked as anger… or any other thing, really. 

So instead Varric keeps his breathing shallow, and tries to fall asleep. Instead he finds himself squinting into the darkness, staring at the long, calloused fingers digging into his tunic. The way her tanned skin contrasts with the deep red fabric -- red just might be Cassandra’s color, not that he could ever tell her that. 

That’s probably another reason he keeps quiet, there’s something rather enchanting about watching Cassandra sleep. The way her dark eyelashes brush her cheeks, how incredibly long they are. The freckles he scarcely has time to notice in the daylight; how youthful they make her seem; how smooth her skin is despite the scars that marr it. It’s perhaps a little voyeuristic, but in a way it’s like seeing a whole new side to her. 

He is surprised to find that he likes what he sees. 

As soon as the thought strikes him, the moment is ruined. With a soft sigh, Cassandra releases her hold on his tunic and rolls away from him, instead gripping the furs and burrowing close to their soft comfort. 

Varric is surprised further still when he realizes his misses her warmth. 

 

2 

 

Cassandra moves instinctively towards the warmest thing near her. Even half-asleep and buried under a mountain of furs, the cold permeating Suledin Keep is enough to make her teeth chatter. 

As Cassandra starts to wake more fully, she slowly becomes aware of her surroundings. Aware of the fire crackling in the hearth, offering a little warmth in the room. 

She is also ware of the fact that she is not alone in the room. The night before she had bedded down with her compatriots, all seeking as much protection as possible in the frigid keep until it was set to rights by Inquisition soldiers. So they had sequestered themselves in one of the more well kept rooms, building up the fire and piling as many musty blankets and furs as they could find in the chests that had been left behind. 

Belatedly, Cassandra also realizes that the thing she has drawn closer to was not a _thing_ , but rather a _who_. More specifically that who is, in fact, Varric Tethras. The thought is more than a little mortifying, but he is not awake to notice and that eases her embarrassment a little. 

He is warm, solid and soothing like a steaming mug of tea clutched between your hands. Something about his presence in that moment is grounding, welcoming. It seems so strange that she would find him so comforting, but Cassandra decides not to dwell on it, and instead draws closer still. She rests her head beside his, lays a hand on his slowly rising and falling chest, and lets herself relax. 

Cassandra decides to enjoy the moment for what it is: a bit of peace in the chaos. 

She does not dwell on why that is. Does not dwell on what she is feeling, or how it will seem come morning. For now she is not as cold as she was, and she feels calm. With those feelings at the forefront of her mind, Cassandra falls into an easy sleep. Perhaps the most restful one she has had in ages. 

Cassandra does not dwell on that either. 

 

3

 

It doesn’t happen often, their sharing a room, but it is something they have to deal with every so often. Like tonight, shoved into the last room the inn had, a single bed for them to share. It isn’t awkward, not anymore. It isn’t anything except business as usual. Something they have each done with other traveling companions. 

Yet Varric finds there is something sweetly domestic about the whole ordeal when it’s the pair of them. 

Cassandra would always carefully remove her armor, clean and polish it as needed. She would try to mend it as best she could given the lack of proper tools. Same for her sword and shield. She would do this, diligent and focused, while Varric would try to catch up on notes for any number of ideas swarming around his head, and missives they had gathered from their requisition officer. 

Mostly though, he would ignore his work in favor of watching her. Just as he does now. 

He watches the way her brow creases while she works. How her long fingers trace over the worn edges of her armor, likely making note that she would need to get it mended properly once they returned to Skyhold. Or perhaps she was even starting to give in to the fact that there was little else she could do for it, and would need a new set all together.

He found she didn’t like retiring her things. Whenever she did, she would be oddly fussy the first few days with new boots or even a gambeson. All of her natural grace would be gone, and instead she would seem stiff, uncomfortable and not quite herself. Even if the fit was right, she would always look a little _off_ in the new things. Almost as if she had lost a piece of herself when she traded out the worn items. 

Varric supposed she had little in her life that was truly her own, and she had lost things, like he had. She couldn’t help but get attached to the small things that brought comfort in whatever form. He could understand that. 

Shit, it was why he watched her when he could. Her presence had become a comfort of sorts. These shared moments more intimate than he would ever admit out loud. So he soaks them up whenever he can. 

Cassandra finishes tending her equipment, and moves to the basin in the corner of the room. She washes up before retiring for the night, and climbing into the thankfully spacious bed to read by candlelight while Varric still pretends to work. Watching her now is a little more difficult, but he still sneaks glances over his shoulder, noting the droop of her eyes as the night wears on. 

When it looks like she is about ready to fall asleep propped against the headboard, Varric gets up and makes a show of readying himself for bed before crawling in beside her. 

The candles are blown out in short order, faint moonlight streaming in through the gaps in the thin curtains covering the window. In the dim light Varric listens to Cassandra’s breathing, even and deep, as she lulls into sleep.

These moments are the most intimate, and Varric almost feels guilty for stealing them. Almost. But not enough to pass up the opportunity to bask in this comfort for a little while before sleep claims him. 

It’s absurd, he knows, and beyond foolish, but still he lets his mind wander. He imagines if this were commonplace. If this were normal. If it were, he might reach out and brush back some of the hair fallen across Cassandra’s forehead. He might lift her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles. He might kiss her like he really meant it. 

This, however, is not commonplace. It is not normal. It is just a hazard of traveling with the Inquisitor. So he doesn’t do any of those things. Instead he just imagines and pretends, and falls asleep daydreaming of things that are not his. 

 

4

 

Part of her hates it every time they are thrown together like this. Another part -- a bigger part, if she is honest -- loves it. Somewhere along the way she has grown accustomed to his company, and finds something is lacking when he is not there. 

It took her a long time to parse through her feelings and all the thoughts racing through her mind; for her to fully realize what they all mean. Even now it is a bitter truth to swallow. So she ignores it, pushes it aside and pretends the truth is not staring her in the face. 

Which it truly is right now. Varric looks at her with mild concern clouding his features, brows drawn together tightly while his warm eyes trail over her face. 

They are once again sharing a room in another nondescript inn. This one is cramped and dingy and smells faintly of mildew. The idea of spending an entire night there is less than appealing to Cassandra, in fact she thinks she might be better off bedding down in the stables with their mounts. Yet she remains, because Varric is there. His presence bolsters her -- as it always does -- makes her feel light and warm, and again she tries not to dwell on that fact.

It would be easier if he would stop looking at her like he is. 

“Hm?” she hums and snaps to when she realizes he has spoken.

He smiles at her, a little fondly. Almost indulgent. Something about it makes her feel like a small girl receiving a favor or special treat. “I said,” he drawls, smiling a little wider. “A copper for your thoughts, Seeker?”

Cassandra shakes her head gently, partly to wave him off, and partly to clear it of her runaway thoughts. 

“They are nothing worthy of a copper,” she says. The lie is easy, because she believes it. Her thoughts, her wayward fantasties, are nothing to make note of. Nothing to speak of out loud, not to Varric. And especially not in this dank, musty room. 

“You sure about that?” he asks, looking at her a little more closely. Almost as if he can see through her. Almost as if he cares. 

“I am sure.” Cassandra nods firmly, and sets about storing her things for the night. Making certain they will be ready for the morning. Once she has finished busying herself with the task, she makes her way to the awkwardly small bed they will share. “Shall we sleep?” she asks. 

“Yeah. Sleep sounds good.” 

It is a precarious fit, the pair of them stretched out on the tiny bed, but it is far better than either sleeping on the dirty floor. Varric shifts, blows out the candle on the bedside table and plunges the room into darkness. Cassandra is thankful for it, as it hides the flush rapidly climbing up her neck, and staining her cheeks. 

She breathes deeply, and tries again to ignore it all: the heat in her cheeks, the erratic thumping of her heart, and the moisture on her palms. She tries to pretend that she is not wishing for something more in this dingy room with Varric by her side. 

 

5

 

She isn’t herself, and Varric tries to parse through his memory to pinpoint the last time she was herself. He’s shocked to find that he cannot recall. 

Perhaps it isn’t her, then. Perhaps he’s the one who isn't himself?

So Varric tries to remember the last time he felt like himself, and once again he can’t seem to recall. All he knows is that he feels old. Ancient even, a weariness he can’t describe seeping into his bones until they feel heavy, like stones. Maybe that was his problem; he was slowly returning to the stones that borne him, like any good dwarf. 

But he’s never been a good dwarf, so why start now?

He sighs quietly, a short puff that he hopes won’t draw her attention. For his part, Varric turns his attention back onto Cassandra. She’s unfocused, like her mind is somewhere far away. All of her nightly tasks were completed only through practice and muscle memory, he can tell she’s put no thought into it. He wishes he could read her thoughts, see what troubles her so much. 

More so he wishes he could ease her mind. Take her burdens and toss them into the fire that’s crackling in the hearth, the only thing warming the cool room of Caer Bronach. Only he can’t do that, just like he can’t toss his burdens into the fire alongside hers. 

They had been thrown together again into one of the few rooms that was able to receive guests. Or some such thing that seemed to be happenstance. Varric had long given up on the idea of conscience or luck, good or bad, and decided that this was just some higher power’s form of torture. 

Torture, because in the times they have shared their space he has grown to know her. Her habits, her moods… the subtle, hidden pieces of her that prove she isn’t just The Seeker, but rather Cassandra. The pieces that he has fallen so in love with it takes his breath away. 

The pieces of her that seem hidden now; the pieces which mean she isn’t herself. He idly wonders if she has noticed the same elements in him, if she sees more than just the face presented to the world? He wonders if she sees him in the same way he sees her. 

The thought is a strange one, and better left alone for now. But again he wonders which of them is less themself: Cassandra or himself. 

“Where are you going?” he asks, pulled from his thoughts when Cassandra stands suddenly.

“I need some fresh air,” she says, voice soft. She’s wringing her hands. Why is she so nervous? “I feel… stifled in here.”

“Want some company?” The offer is more for his own comfort than hers. He finds he doesn’t want to be alone. 

“No. I think I would prefer my own company. Thank you.” She turns on her heel, and rushes from the room. 

After she leaves everything is eerily quiet save the gentle crackling of the fire. Her words sting, a little. It’s childish, he knows. And he’s well aware that none of this is her fault. Never was. That doesn’t stop the blooming annoyance inside his chest. 

Mostly he’s annoyed with himself, but for right this second she’s an easier target. So he finishes up his letters, and readies himself for bed. Cassandra is still gone by the time he crawls into bed and blows out the candles. 

When she returns sometime later, she enters quietly. He wonders if she was waiting until he was asleep to return. He decides to oblige her, and pretends he is. There’s enough light from the fire to see her as she creeps across the room, face drawn and mouth a thin line. 

Whatever annoyance he felt rushes away like an ebbing tide. Something is bothering her, and once again he wishes nothing more than to help. Still, he remains silent as she pulls back the blankets and climbs into next to him, bringing the smell of fresh air and leather polish with her. 

For a brief, fleeting moment he contemplates lifting his hand and covering hers. For comfort. He doesn’t though. Instead he rolls onto his side, still pretending to sleep, and wonders how much longer he can bear this. 

 

+1

 

Peals of laughter echo around the chamber. Cassandra thinks perhaps they should quiet themselves, but it is doubtful there is anyone around to hear them. Even if there were, she doesn’t care. So she lets her laughter bubble up from inside her chest, warm and glowing, until she is giggling so hard she can barely catch her breath. 

They are sprawled across the viscount’s bed. Varric’s bed, she corrects herself. _Their_ bed, she corrects herself once more. And that has a wonderful ring to it, welcoming like home; like Varric. 

Cassandra has confiscated Varric’s tunic, the fabric slipping down her shoulder as she collapses back against the pillows, still in a fit of laughter. Varric’s hands travel over her legs, finding each and every ticklish spot along the way. The situation is completely ridiculous, and for some reason it does not matter. 

Varric finds a particularly sensitive area, and Cassandra’s reaction shocks even herself. She jerks her leg from his grasp, involuntarily kicking out with her foot which lands squarely against Varric’s nose. 

“Andraste’s tits--” his curses are cut short as he covers his face with both hands. 

Cassandra surges to her knees, kneeling beside him on the bed while trying to gently pry his hands away and assess the damage. 

“Oh, Varric, I am so sorry. I did not mean to--” She finally gets him to lower his hands. His nose appears fine, if not a little red, and thankfully he is laughing. 

“I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did, but I truly did not mean to do it.” She laughs half-heartedly and gently frames his face with her hands. A trite smile curves her lips. 

“Well, you can always kiss it and make it better.” He gives her a cheeky, charming grin. Even now it is still enough to make her heart flutter. 

“If you think that is the only way?”

“Oh, it’s definitely the only way.” Varric nods solemnly, even as the corner of his mouth twitches and his eyes glint in the candlelight filling the room. 

Cassandra gives a resigned sigh before placing a kiss to the tip of his nose, the bridge, and finally between his brows. She pulls back and before she can ask if it is better, Varric tips his face up and captures her lips in a kiss. 

His hands find her hips as her arms wind around his neck. Cassandra isn’t sure when she moved from kneeling beside him, to straddling his lap, but that is unimportant. 

Once upon a time it had been awkward as they tried to find the balance between limbs and bodies as they tangled together. Now there is only practiced ease, a sense of belonging. A sense that everything between them is right. Cassandra twins her finger in his hair, and the tunic slips completely off her shoulder. His mouth slant over hers, hands warm and secure as they trail over her exposed back. 

A long time passes before they each pull back slowly, stealing kisses and catching their breath. Cassandra smiles and rests her forehead against his, arms still wrapped tightly around his neck. 

“I take it that everything is all better now?”

“Everything is perfect.” Varric presses another quick kiss against her lips. 

It only takes Cassandra a moment to realize that it is a distraction as Varric’s fingers once again dig into sensitive flesh, tickling. She tries to scramble away, to find sanctuary amongst the pillows, but it is to no avail. Her opponent is a wiley one, with nimble fingers and a roguish disposition. 

“Varric!” she shrieks, laughing once again. 

It is utterly ridiculous and even bordering on childish, she knows, but it does not matter. Because for once they are both happy, and that is all that matters.


End file.
